


The Case of the Queer Booksellers

by FleetSparrow



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Courting Through Casework, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27451183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleetSparrow/pseuds/FleetSparrow
Summary: Holmes asks Watson if he'll join him on a case and Watson, like the good sport he is, agrees.  Holmes is excited.After all, he's never spoiled a police raid before.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 37
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2020





	The Case of the Queer Booksellers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tinawiththeglasses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinawiththeglasses/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this! I had a lot of fun writing it.
> 
> (Forgive me for any historical errors; they were entirely my own.)

It was a strange morning when I awoke late to find my friend animatedly speaking to someone at the front door of Baker Street. That I could hear him all the way up in our sitting room meant that he was, in all likelihood, putting on a bit of a performance for someone, but as to why, I had no idea.

I watched from the window to see if I could identify the person to whom Holmes was speaking. It looked like Mr Gregson, of Scotland Yard, but as to why he was not in our rooms was curious. Finally, he bade Holmes good-bye and rode off in his cab. I moved away from the window and rang for my breakfast.

Holmes returned at once, his face flushed with excitement.

“Watson! Have you eaten?”

“Not yet, but I—”

“How soon can you be ready?”

“For what, man?”

His eyes shone. “Adventure.”

“What sort of adventure, Holmes?”

He flung himself into the chair opposite me and began to speak, but the maid came in at that moment. Only once he was sure she had left and was no longer near our door did he respond.

“Mr Gregson has just informed me of a raid tonight at a certain location which he suspects is the hub of a counterfeiting ring. He is, of course, completely wrong. I know the establishment quite well. I have just been assuring him that I will look into it and report to him when the time is right.”

I frowned over my eggs. “I must say, Holmes, that doesn’t quite sound in your line.”

“I’ve never ruined a police raid before,” he said, that same excitement in his eyes. “Tell me, Watson, are you prepared to break the law with me?”

“Good heavens, Holmes! What are you planning?”

“Sabotage. Have I not said I would make an excellent criminal had I decided towards such a path? Well, today we shall see if I am right.”

“Then I am prepared to break the law with you. But I hope you might explain for what cause.”

Holmes smiled. “Eat up, Watson. I must make some slight preparations. We shall be off as soon as you have finished.” With that, he rose and crossed to his room, leaving me puzzled, to say the least.

When he emerged, I could not see that he had done anything different with his dress, but there was an air of difference about him that I could not quite define. I was about to ask him if this mission might require my revolver, but he took my arm and bundled me out the door with him.

“How are your wounds today, Watson? Would a walk be out of the question?” he asked.

I sensed that he had a preference, and, not feeling any pain at the time, I agreed. Holmes led us at an easy pace to Soho, though I could see he was restraining himself from picking up speed for my sake. It was a surprisingly lovely day, the clouds of fog typically over the city having burned off by late morning, and, I must say, I enjoyed the exercise. Holmes talked easily, though not once about the case at hand. It wasn’t until we were nearly to the shop that he stopped and spoke to me with interest.

“Watson, whatever may happen, I want you to follow me lead.”

“Of course, Holmes.”

“And don’t question anything I might do in there. I will explain all when we have been successful.”

I began to laugh at his seriousness, but the look in his eyes was strong. “I promise, Holmes,” I said, touching his arm.

He nodded. “Thank you, Watson. Come, now, put this in your buttonhole and we shall enter.”

He handed me a small bit of lavender, and led me into the shop.

It was, of all places, a bookshop. I supposed if one was going to counterfeit anything, a bookshop or a printers would be the best places to do it. Yet, Holmes had said this was not the case, and I had never seen Holmes proved wrong.

The shop was fairly well stuffed with books. They were on shelves, on tables, and on the chairs set up in corners for patrons. Even the shop’s clock had a small stack of books piled atop it. Holmes led me through the winding cases up to the proprietor.

He was a young man, no older than Holmes or I, with waves of blond hair curled close to his head in a rather modern fashion. He looked up from his book with a measure of boredom, but when his eyes landed on Holmes, he straightened and smiled.

“Mr Stillwater! How wonderful to see you again. And this is…?”

“My friend, Dr Morrison,” Holmes said. “This is Mr Hart.”

“Your servant, sir,” said Hart. He eyed the flowers in our lapels. His gaze flicked to the door, then he fetched a book from behind his counter.

“I believe we had spoken about this book the last time you were here. It just came in. Would you gentlemen like to step into the reading room?”

Holmes took the book. “Thank you.”

Hart bowed his head and walked to a shelf. He pulled on a book, and a case at the rear of the shop opened. Holmes led me through this, carrying the book with him.

There was a small passageway between shops, and soon we were in what should have been a store room, but it was decorated with velvet curtains on the walls. There were already four others in that room: two gentlemen about twenty years our senior seated in a pair of armchairs, a few volumes on the table between them; a young woman who flinched when the door opened, and then hid behind her book; and a young dark-haired man behind another counter. Holmes guided me towards a shelf and bade me to look for something while he opened the book Mr Hart had given him.

The books were all, at least, on this shelf, romances. I pulled one out and random and discovered they were all romances between men. I must admit that I became very conscious of Holmes’ proximity to me as I skimmed through the text. It was rather frank in its subject, and when I turned the page to an illustration, I felt myself grow hot.

Holmes had his hawkish nose buried in the text he held, his dark eyes focused with an intensity I had rarely seen in him outside of a case. I had to remind myself that, for him, this was a case of some sort. He closed the book and touched my arm.

“One moment, Watson.”

I nodded mutely, and Holmes left my side to speak in hushed tones with the man behind the counter.

I risked another glance at the people around us. The young woman was blushing, her lips moving as she read, her eyes rapturous, as though whatever she read was providing her secrets she had never heard before. The older gentlemen were whispering together, one sharing a passage from the book he read, their hands resting together on the stack of books between them. I felt a pang of want, and moved to another shelf.

I had nearly forgot myself when Holmes touched my shoulder, so engrossed in an adventure story was I. Holmes had his small smile on his lips.

“Is it good?” he asked, of the book I held.

“It’s interesting.”

“Shall we purchase it?”

Thinking he was teasing me, I put it back. “Has your business concluded?” I asked.

“Yes, until tonight. I would like you to come with me tonight. Perhaps your presence will help console Gregson when he fails to find what he was after.”

Holmes had a different book under his arm, which he took with us out back the way we had come. He gave it to Hart, and the two of us departed. Just before we had turned the corner, Holmes plucked the lavender from our jackets, tossing it away.

That the lavender had signaled us as friends to the establishment, I knew, but I began to wonder how Holmes had known. He hailed for a cab, and we lunched out.

It was late when Gregson arrived, well after we had finish dinner.

“Holmes, I received your message. Everything is still as planned.”

Holmes had a queer smile on his face. “And you still insist you will find what you are looking for?”

“There’s criminality afoot, Holmes. My man hasn’t lied about that,” Gregson said.

“Yes. I wonder,” Holmes said quietly. He rose. “You will not mind if Watson accompanies us?”

“Not at all! Perhaps you can write something about a police success, for once, Doctor.”

We rode in Gregson’s cab back to the bookshop, stopping a street before to walk there. The night had cooled considerably, and the fog had returned with a vengeance, as though making up for the sun earlier in the day. A policeman in plain clothes was standing a few doors down from the bookshop, and Gregson approached him.

“There’s been some to-do, sir. I’ve seen people go in and out all day since noon.”

“Anything tonight?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve heard hammering all night.”

“They’ll be trying to dismantle their shop, I suppose,” Gregson said.

“That rather sounds like they’re putting the shop together,” Holmes said, lightly.

“We’ll see.”

Gregson signaled to a constable. A whistle cut through the night. The police burst in, followed by Gregson, Holmes, and myself. Mr Hart and the other man were in the main room, in the process of setting up another case of books. They looked confused more than panicked.

“All right, lads. Where is it?” Gregson asked.

“Where’s what, sir?” Hart asked, a classical picture of innocence.

“You know what,” Gregson grumbled. “Search the place!”

The proprietors watched on as the police tried to pry shelves off the walls in their search.

“If I may be of some assistance,” Holmes said to Gregson.

“Please, do!”

Holmes walked up to the two men, who, for their part, showed no signs of recognition.

“I believe the inspector wishes to see your store room.”

“Oh,” said the dark-haired man. “He could have said that.”

I expected him to go to the shelf with the book trigger, but instead he opened the book case with a small key, pulling it into the shop. Gregson looked somehow put out and eager all at once.

“Come on, men!”

The store room was nothing like it had been mere hours before. The walls were bare wallpaper, and the room was empty, save for open crates of books. The police went through the crates at Gregson’s instruction, but all that were there were books, the sort to be found anywhere.

“What could they have done with it, Holmes?” asked a resigned Gregson.

Holmes’ face was appropriately serious. “Perhaps this is not the business about which your informant had information.”

“He was sure it was.”

“Then, if you would permit me, let me speak to him. Maybe there is some clue you’ve missed. In any case, it is obvious this is not the correct establishment.”

There was certainly no high spirits when we emerged from the store room, except, perhaps, Holmes’. He paused just before we left the shop.

“How long have you been here, sir?”

Hart looked at his partner. “About three months.”

“Thank you.”

“What are you driving at, Holmes?” Gregson asked, as we entered the street.

“Nothing. Merely, that you might check on the shop who was here before. Perhaps that is where your counterfeiters are.”

Gregson, for once, looked on Holmes with suspicion. “I’ll see to it.”

“Then, inspector, I’m afraid Dr Watson and myself must be off,” Holmes said. “It is getting cold, and, though the doctor is too good to complain, I am sure the dampness in the air is doing his wounds no favors. May we take your cab? Thank you.”

Holmes did not speak to me until we were settled by the fire in our sitting room, though his eyes held a spark of mischief in them the entire ride back.

“Well, Watson. What do you think? A job well done?”

“I must say, Holmes, I’m not at all sure it was wise. Gregson seemed to suspect you of having a hand in that.”

He smiled. “Gregson didn’t know what he was getting into. But never mind Gregson. What did you think of the night’s adventure?”

“I don’t believe for one minute that he was looking for counterfeiters there,” I said. “And I know you don’t think so, or you wouldn’t have asked me there this morning.”

Holmes held up his hands. “I confess, this morning’s escapade could have been done alone. I wanted you there strictly for courting purposes.” There was a hush in his voice as he said this last sentence, as though he had trouble admitting the words aloud.

I smiled and sat forward, reaching for him.

“Holmes. You never needed to court me.”

Holmes took my hand. “I only ask to become yours, my dear Watson.”

“I cannot think of anyone I would rather have, my dear Holmes.”

Two days later, Gregson’s informant was arrested in connection with a series of counterfeiters Holmes led the police to. On the third day, a parcel was delivered to Baker Street addressed to us by name. In it were several books, all of a quite sensational nature that I am sure you can imagine. Holmes and I read these at night together before retiring to our shared bedroom.


End file.
